


Eternity

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romance, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: What if Crowley and Aziraphale gave up immortality to live together as humans? What might their lives be like?





	Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry if it’s crap. It took a lot out of me to write it. Inspired by the Michael Sheen tweet that poses the same question.

They give up eternity to be with one another.

To live the rest of their lives on Earth as humans.

No more tempting, no more blessing. No more bowing to Beelzebub and Gabriel.

No more worrying about the Ineffable Plan.

Let fate do its thing while they focus on themselves and their happiness.

Complete and total freedom.

And for Crowley, for the first time officially, _free will_.

They talk about it for over 200 years before they put any plan into action. It’s the only way they can see being together without Heaven and Hell dogging their every move, without the constant threat of Hellfire and Holy Water for what they’ve done.

For Crowley, however, it’s more. It’s insurance – making certain that Aziraphale wouldn’t fall, wouldn’t become a demon.

Wouldn’t lose his claim on an Eternity in Paradise.

With the use of old scripture that Aziraphale procures from the estate of a deceased archeologist, and with the help of Anathema and Newt’s great-great-great-great-great-great grandchildren, they find a way. They call in some favors, tear up old contracts, exploit some loopholes, and voila.

_Humanity_.

The loss of magic takes some getting used to.

The first thing Crowley attempts to miracle is the boot off his car. That’s the day he learns he can no longer park wherever he wants whenever he wants.

And that’s kind of a bummer, along with the discovery that, without his demonic power, his Bentley only caps off at a respectable 75 miles per hour.

Still, they recognize that they’re luckier than most.

Having lived close to 7,000 years by now, Crowley has enough long term stock built up to keep them comfortable for more than a millennia.

Way more money than they’ll ever need.

So they spend it. They travel the world, see everything all over again anew with mortal eyes.

They don’t set foot in London again for close to a decade and it doesn’t dawn on them to care.

But what for immortal beings is barely the blink of an eye, they begin to understand what it means when humans say, “It feels like a lifetime.”

And before they know it, before they’re both ready, that lifetime starts coming to a close.

At the ripe old age of 83, (well, 7,283) Aziraphale begins to slow down.

He doesn’t walk as quickly. He has a hard time getting up. And he coughs all the time – hard enough to shake his body and turn his face bright red.

Hard enough to frighten the life out of Crowley.

Aziraphale doesn’t leave the bookshop most days. It’s been more like home to him than any place in the world. He stays in the back room, stretched out on a sofa, wrapped in a multitude of blankets, reading a book. Those round glasses he used to wear for show are prescription now. Without them, he’s nearly blind.

Some days, Crowley reads to him. On those days, Aziraphale falls asleep leaning against his shoulder, a small, contented smile on his lips.

As Aziraphale gets weaker and weaker, Crowley often asks him, “Do you regret it? Giving up immortality to live as a mortal with me?” And Aziraphale always answers the same: “Not one minute, my dear boy. I only wish we could do it all again.”

Crowley was prepared to go first. He had been for years. Wishful thinking since he knew deep down Aziraphale would take that journey, and without him.

“Heaven wanted their angel back,” people say at his funeral.

Little do they know how right they are.

Crowley doesn’t worry about Aziraphale in the afterlife. He knows in his heart that, regardless of Gabriel’s constant groaning that he’d never give Aziraphale a reference, he had a place reserved for him in heaven.

Crowley knows it just as surely as he knows he doesn’t.

It’s a thought that’s kept him up at night.

There’s always a chance that _no one_ would want him, so he’d probably live forever.

As it turns out, someone _does_.

Hell tries to tempt him back.

Hastur finds Crowley at the bus stop late one night, drinking red wine from the bottle and staring at the empty space beside him, picturing Aziraphale there that first night he offered to let him stay at his place. Funny thing was, that image had started to get clearer every night he went there.

Hence, he’d started going there a lot.

Hastur tells him he’s been given permission to offer Crowley anything his heart desires. He’s still highly prized in Hell after all, especially after that switcheroo stunt he and Aziraphale pulled. Demons still talk about it – not that an angel infiltrated their midsts and pulled a fast one on them, but how the demon Crowley walked boldly into the head offices of Heaven and spit fire at the Archangel Gabriel.

“The tale has been exaggerated over time,” Hastur says sourly. Nonetheless, Hastur offers him power, a dukedom in hell, free reign. Just ask for it, and he’ll have it.

Crowley polishes off his bottle, then asks for his husband back.

But that, Hastur can’t give to him, even if he wanted to.

Which he doesn’t.

Crowley tells Hastur that regrettably he must decline.

Hastur shrugs. “Don’t worry,” Hastur says with a wicked grin. “In six months, you’ll be ours.”

Crowley doesn’t go back to his flat that night. He simply stays at the bus stop, thinking that part over.

Six months.

He only has six months.

It’s not enough time.

It was never enough time.

They never had enough time.

When the sun comes up, he hears a bird singing, and for some reason, that prompts him to pray. But he doesn’t pray to God.

He prays to Aziraphale.

“What do I do?” he asks. “With the time I have left? How do I make it worthwhile?”

He’s not sure he gets an answer, but he gets a ton of ideas.

Now that he knows how much time he has to work with, he sits down at his office desk and decides on the best way to use it, the mantra, "What would Aziraphale do?" always on his mind.

So he ties up loose ends, starting with his finances.

He has no dependents, so he starts giving money away.

First to the human families he and Aziraphale have known and loved throughout the years, starting with the descendants of Anathema and Newt, Warlock, Adam and The Them. He sets up trusts, then donates the rest to various non-profits Aziraphale would have loved – libraries and museums, animal shelters and wildlife sanctuaries, women’s shelters and orphanages, and selfishly, a botanical garden or two. He sets up scholarships in Aziraphale’s name, has school reading rooms named after him, even backs two start-up French restaurants of very deserving new chefs, requesting only naming rights in return.

Those two restaurants, which cater to the elite and the homeless alike, become _Aziraphale Fell’s_ and _The Angel Room_.

By the time Crowley is done, he has created a legacy for his husband that will hopefully keep his memory alive for an eternity.

The only request he makes for himself as he drafts his will?

_Bury me with my husband._

When that day comes, when he feels it in his bones that his time’s nearly up, he gets dressed in his finest black suit with the addition of his husband’s favorite tartan collar. Long unable to drive, he takes the bus to his husband’s plot. He brings along his favorite rubber tree (which earns him more than a few strange looks), and sits on the grass in front of Aziraphale’s headstone.

It’s consecrated ground, but it doesn’t burn his skin, and even if it did, that wouldn’t keep him away.

Crowley doesn’t know what’s waiting for him on the other side.

When Aziraphale passed on, Crowley panicked. Everything he had, his whole world, died that day.

After he put Aziraphale in the ground, he felt he had nothing to live for.

Now he accepts that what happens will happen.

That’s the Arrangement (this one worthy of the capital _A_) they made at the beginning of all this. They’d enjoy the time they were given and let fate do its thing.

His ending was written the moment he became mortal.

As Beelzebub always said, what is written is written.

Maybe he’ll be talking about it again with Beelzebub soon.

Best case scenario, he disappears, but he doesn’t think that’s in the cards for him. Not after everything he’s done. He expects fire and he expects pain.

An eternity of it.

As the sun starts to set on him, he talks to Aziraphale one last time. It’s the only real joy he ever had in his life, talking to his angel. That’s the way Aziraphale’s life ended, too – sitting beside his husband, going on and on about the life they shared together, what a blessing it was, how much he loved it.

How much he loved _him_.

He thanked Crowley, too. Thanked him for everything – from that first day on the wall to his last one, and every one in between.

That’s the way Crowley wants to go, even if Aziraphale isn’t physically with him. Though he’s always felt Aziraphale with him – the same as in the pub so many years ago after the fire in the bookshop. He feels Aziraphale with him now, sitting beside him, listening to every word Crowley has to say. He recounts the events of the past few months the best that he can remember, talks about the people he met, the things he did in Aziraphale’s name, the lives he’d been able to touch using Aziraphale’s memory as his guiding light.

And he tells him he loves him more than a dozen times.

It gets cold early.

It’s late spring, but Crowley can’t stop shivering.

The rubber tree cozies up to him, tries to give him comfort, but it’s not enough.

He’s simply so damned tired.

He puts his head down, laying his cheek approximately where he assumes Aziraphale’s heart would be. He whispers what’s left, everything and anything he can think to say.

He closes his eyes.

A few minutes later, he’s not cold anymore.

And he hasn’t disappeared.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to light – a light so bright, he should want to turn from it, but he doesn’t. It doesn’t burn his eyes, it doesn’t frighten him.

It’s warm. It’s comforting.

And it knows his name.

His _angel_ name.

But the only voice that matters is the one that whispers in his ear long before his eyes become accustomed to the light.

The voice that welcomes him home.

“Hello, my dear boy. I’ve missed you terribly. It’s so nice to see you again.”


End file.
